


all the gold and the guns in the world couldn’t get you off

by dreamonhunters



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Fake Newsies AU, GTA AU, Gun Kink, Gun Violence, M/M, Minor Violence, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24830005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamonhunters/pseuds/dreamonhunters
Summary: Race simply laughs. A light sound, contrasting sharply against the fury behind those stormy eyes. He’s not afraid of Spot.“Make me leave.”Taunting. There’s a challenge in his voice, clear as day, and he knows exactly what that’ll do to Spot’s ego. Spot’s cigarette drops to the ground, filter burning away. Race watches red engulf the flimsy paper, smoke rising slowly.
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 10
Kudos: 50





	all the gold and the guns in the world couldn’t get you off

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bigsleepsuperhighway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigsleepsuperhighway/gifts).



> happy birthday dylan ♡

The agreement between Fake Manhattan and Fake Brooklyn is simple. A  _ child _ could understand it. Simple terms, even simpler consequences. Kelly keeps his boys out of Brooklyn, and Conlon will do the same in Manhattan. A necessary evil. Natural rivalry, and Jack would call this a natural solution. They both know what’ll happen if either side breaks those terms.

They keep their distance. 

Rules are made with the sole purpose of being bent, though, and that’s the personal mantra of Racetrack Higgins. He doesn’t have to break the rules, so to speak. He'll just manipulate them a little, make them work his version of events. Spot Conlon just can’t drive that stake of fear through his heart. When you’re on top of the world, it’s a little that  _ can  _ scare you, and Race has kept himself firmly there since he joined Fake Manhattan. 

Pulling off a solo job in Brooklyn is well within Race’s capabilities, even if he knows  _ exactly  _ how Jack will react once he sees the evening news. Awaits the screaming match with a strange mixture of excitement and dread. Settles in his gut, coiled tightly. Kinetic energy, just waiting for a stimulus to set it in motion.

The thrill of adrenaline thrums through Race’s body, electric. There’s a shout somewhere behind him; Race can’t make out what he’s saying, but it’s urgent. Loud. Something whizzes past his ear, clearly a bullet, and he ducks down. Narrowly avoids the hit, because he’s clever and fast and impossible to catch. Los Santos’ very own golden boy. His own laughter fills his ears. 

It’s a familiar rush that shoots through his entire body as he sprints, the sound of sirens wailing and bullets pinging off metal ringing in his ears. High off the endorphins a good firefight gives him. You can’t achieve that feeling any other way, Race knows this well. He’s tried enough designer drugs by now to know for sure. 

He slams the door shut behind him and sprints up the staircase, rubber-soled sneakers squeaking against the cheap linoleum. The boxy type, giving him just another few inches. 

He doubles over the moment he’s certain of his safety, warm air hitting his face. The rooftop is the only place he can be sure he’s safe, above the bedlam left in his wake. Almost falls to his knees, muscles shaking. Keeping himself upright is an arduous task. Tries to catch his breath, distract himself, ragged from running for so long and so hard. His lungs burn, chest heaving, and it’s a sensation Race chases on a near daily basis. Makes the rush just that little bit more intense. 

And people call Albert the adrenaline junkie.

One hand reaches out, steadying himself on gritty concrete. Digs into the soft palm. He’s still laughing, quietly, to himself, the rush of adrenaline just too much for his mind to process right now. His muscles tremble. 

“Higgins,” a smooth voice says, close by. Behind him. Cuts through his train of thought instantly, and Race lifts his head. His trademark smirk spreads across his face. A voice you’d recognise anywhere, and one that should fill any normal person with dread. Make their blood run cold.

Race turns his head. Broad, muscular shoulders. Dark hair. Deep brown eyes filled with a silent rage. They’re almost black in this light. Fuck, he’s hot. In another life, Race swears this man was a supermodel.

He knows  _ he  _ shouldn’t be here, and he knows exactly why  _ Spot _ is here with him. 

“Conlon!” he greets brightly, voice a little raspy. Hasn’t quite caught his breath yet. There’s something oddly cheerful about his demeanour, certainly not a man who’s just narrowly escaped with his life. On Brooklyn territory, just to add insult to injury. “Nice to see ya again.”

Spot scowls, one eyebrow raised. “Are you stupid, or suicidal?” he demands. Already, his annoyance is thinly veiled, and Race won’t need to push very hard to make him break. 

“Dunno what you’re talkin’ ‘bout, Spottie.” Race answers, although the look in his eye and the smirk tugging at his lips strongly suggest otherwise. There’s a hint of his accent in his voice, stronger than his own. A mockery of Spot’s own Brooklyn twang. “I ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong.” 

He doesn’t answer for a few moments, and Race is very aware of the gun at Spot’s hip. It’s not much of a threat, because Race also has a gun, and the guts to pull it. Being leader of Fake Brooklyn didn’t do much in the way of deterrence. Race can’t remember what fear even feels like anymore. 

A lighter clicks, the scent of smoke filling the air. Spot takes a long drag from his cigarette, flicking the ash onto the concrete, and watching it fall. “You really gonna dishonour an agreement like that?” 

“Oh, c‘mon, it’s no big deal,” Race drawls. “It’s jus’ little old me, y’know I don’t cause much trouble.” 

Spot rests the cigarette between his lips, something akin to amusement in those dark eyes. “Last I checked, Kelly’s boys stay outta Brooklyn. An’ this don’t look like stayin’ outta Brooklyn.”

Race rolls his eyes theatrically, watching the smoke curl up in front of Spot’s face. Strong jawline. His skin looks rough, dirty. He’d quite like to taste it between his teeth, he decides. The end of his cigarette glows amber as he takes another drag. Expectation is etched across his face. 

“If it makes ya feel any better, I ain’t here makin’ money,” Race sighs. 

“Don’t care whatcha doin’, Higgins, ya workin’ in Brooklyn. An’ this ain’t your territory.” Spot answers.

His eyes flash with interest, cerulean against dark brown. “An’ what ya gonna do about it? Go whine to Jack? ‘Cause I really don’t think he’s gonna care.” 

He’ll care. He’ll care a whole damn lot, and Race can already hear him being placed on house arrest for at least a month after this little fiasco. Worth it, though. Race never spent much time in Brooklyn, only ever passing through. Today’s antics were out of pure boredom, to tell the truth. 

“Ya really think he’s not gonna care?” Spot challenges. “Sounds like someone don’t know their leader as well as they think.” 

“Nah. I’m sayin’ Jack’s gonna take my word over yours. So I can say whatever the fuck I wanna,” Race explained. Speaking slower, patronising. Testing the waters. 

Spot scowls, face darkening. “Don’t think he fuckin’ will.”

Race simply laughs. A light sound, contrasting sharply against the fury behind those stormy eyes. He’s not afraid of Spot. 

“Make me leave.”

Taunting. There’s a challenge in his voice, clear as day, and he knows exactly what that’ll do to Spot’s ego. Spot’s cigarette drops to the ground, filter burning away. Race watches red engulf the flimsy paper, smoke rising slowly. 

“You know I could kill you,” Spot murmurs. His right hand rests on the gun in his waistband. He doesn’t pull it, not yet. 

Gauges Race’s reaction first. And Race doesn’t falter. Formulates his own little plan, although he covers it well. Race’s poker face is famed around these parts. 

“I could kill you right here, right now, and who would know it was me?” he continued, and now he’s the one doing the taunting. Drops his voice down a little, feeds Race’s ego. Knows exactly what to say, how to work Race up. He’s a Manhattan boy, they’re all the same, cocky through and through. There’s something infuriatingly hot about it.

Race plays the same game, fortunately. 

“Aw, but you won’t,” Race answers easily, batting those long eyelashes over big blue eyes. Like a little porcelain doll. “You don’t  _ want _ to, Spottie.” 

“Who  _ says  _ I don’t want to?”

“Me.”

Suddenly, he’s staring down the barrel of a gun. Race smirks.  _ This  _ is what he wanted, that familiar thrill of adrenaline already shooting through him and making him just a little dizzy in the most pleasant way possible. The feeling of standing on the top of a skyscraper and looking down, the little flip in the pit of his stomach. 

There’s a click, and Race’s eyes are trained on the gun again. Not on Spot, although he can make out the man’s face in his peripherals. That’s the safety clicking off, a sound that’s almost second nature to Race by now. He’s found himself in this exact situation more times than one. 

There’s an audible thud as Race’s knees hit the concrete. Spot inhales sharply. A sting of pain, a sharp crack. Those bruises can wait for later. Deep purple and blue, a temporary reminder of the shit he’s about to pull. 

He should be scared. He should be  _ terrified. _ Any sane person would beg for their lives, frantic, especially at the hand of Spot Conlon. Race feels nothing but arousal, and somewhere in the back of his mind he almost considers how fucked up that is. Blue eyes flicker up to dark brown, a hint of confusion held there. 

But Race doesn’t grace him with a verbal response. Bats those pretty eyes again. Long fingers wrap around the cold muzzle of the gun, dragging it to his chin. It rests just beneath his jawbone, metal digging into soft skin just a little. He can spell gunpowder already.

“You gonna kill me, big man?” he teases, that signature golden boy smirk plastered across his face. He knows just how much that’ll irritate Spot. “Prove it, Spottie. Prove you would.” 

Spot’s face is schooled into a completely neutral expression, eyes blank. Impassive. And Race knows better, and he’ll flaunt that he knows better. Wouldn’t spill Manhattan blood on Brooklyn turf. 

Slowly, gradually, Spot tilts his chin up. Their eyes lock, and Race finally gets the confirmation he needs. A flash of darkness in Spot’s eyes, an almost aggressive lust. 

“Prove it,” Race whispers, lifting the muzzle of Spot’s glock to his lips. His tongue darts out. Taste of gunmetal, sharp in his mouth. Shock of metal, iron blood, gunpowder.

Spot doesn’t move, frozen to the spot. Race’s lips are wrapped around the muzzle now, teeth clinking against the metallic rim. He waits, shoots Spot a teasing wink — and by God, Spot could’ve died right then and there, and he’d have thought he died at the hands of an incubus — before slowly beginning to work his way up the gun. Deliberate. Gradual. He’s a showman at heart, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t give Spot a show to remember. He blinks up at Spot through heavy-lidded eyes, and they both know that if he could, he’d be smirking lazily. So self-satisfied. He practically gets off on his own theatrics.

Race’s mouth is practically on the trigger guard by now, unfamiliar warmth against Spot’s finger. They both know the safety is off, and they both know it won’t be going back on until Race is gone and this is nothing but a memory Spot desperately clings onto. He’ll be the star of Spot’s dreams for weeks to come, and Race thrives upon that knowledge. 

It’s a little known fact that Race has one of the poorest gag reflexes in the city, but he won’t let that stop him here. Not when he has Spot practically eating out of the palm of his hand, chest rising and falling just a little heavier than normal. Right where he wants him. Those dark eyes don’t stray from Race’s lips, his eyes, his hollowed-out cheeks. Moves slowly, almost cautiously, testing his own limits almost as hard as he pushes at Spot’s. Swallows it down. The metal is warm in his mouth now, a sharp iron tang that spreads all the way down his throat. 

It’s a dangerous little game he’s playing. So aware of the power Spot holds over him, the way his heart pounds in his chest out of nothing but pure  _ instinct. _ All he has to do is squeeze the trigger, the lightest of pressure, because Race knows this gun is loaded, can  _ feel  _ the weight of ammunition, and it’s game over. One of the boys will collect his corpse, and he’ll miss the gang war of a lifetime. All because of his incessant need to cause problems. It’s almost a romantic way to go. Make a good movie one day. 

Spot won’t pull that trigger. Won’t dare, because he’s so turned on by the mere sight of Race with his glock down his throat, so completely enamoured by him, that he can’t do it, consequences he damned. 

He can’t take it any longer. Can’t take the drawn out teasing. Pulls the gun back, mindful of Race’s teeth. One hand grips Race’s collar, practically dragging the boy to his face, and that smug little smirk is back on his face in a heartbeat. Infuriating. There’s an almost primal look in Spot’s eye. He could shoot him, right there and then, just to wipe that look off his face. Spot’s gun clatters to the ground. 

“What’s wrong?” Race laughs, breathless. His back connects against the wall, — another bruise to add to the collection, a small voice says — and Spot shoves a thigh between his legs. 

“Don’t talk. Shut the  _ fuck  _ up, Racetrack,” he mutters, tearing at Race’s shirt. He just laughs, because this is Racetrack Higgins, and life is nothing more than a series of dramatic events to him. “Start running that mouth again, and I swear I’ll leave you here to sort yourself out.” 

“You wouldn’t,” Race laughs, while Spot fumbles with the zipper. Feels the warm air on his bare flesh as Spot roughly yanks away his clothing, face falling forward to rest on the shorter man’s shoulder. And for the love of all things holy, he can’t stop laughing. The adrenaline is too much, so much, even as Spot spits into his palm and wraps a hand around his cock. 

There’s nothing elaborate about Spot’s ministrations. The antithesis of Race’s showmanship. They’re rough, harsh, but Race is too far gone to care. Bites at the meat of Spot’s shoulder, feels those muscles flex and contract beneath flawless tan skin. His hips naturally buck up into the man’s hand, and he gasps, unable to form coherent words. Can’t even think straight. Spot’s muttering something, low and fast, and dimly, Race recognises it to be Spanish. Curse words, for certain, and he doesn’t even speak the language. Spot’s breathing hitches every time Race bites, and he laughs a little harder. 

What a power trip, to have the King of Brooklyn so weak for you. Race’s ego can barely take it. Wonders how he’ll explain those bruises away to his gang members, what lies he’ll tell to pretend one of Kelly’s boy didn’t put him in his place. 

It’s over quick, but Race won’t complain. Can’t complain, really, because he was already hard just from seeing the look on Spot’s face when he wrapped his lips around that damn glock. He spills into Spot’s hand with a sharp cry, back arching off the wall. And then he sinks his teeth back into the boy’s shoulder, lips curled into a smirk. 

“So whatcha gonna tell Kelly?” 

It’s a challenge. After all this, he's still the same cocky little bastard as always. 

“Get outta here, an’ keep your mouth fuckin’ shut.”

Race laughs. 

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr @narvaeztrash for more writing _!_


End file.
